She began to imagine the chain of hands that had handled the syalifahzip: a girl who'd once used it to cover a fever as her mother read verses, an old woman who had tucked a coin into the fold before boarding a bus, a bride who had pinned it hurriedly behind her ear and then had to hide laughter behind her palm. Each small act deposited something—a scent, a crease, a tear—that the fabric retained the way a diary holds a life.